


Could Be Worse

by fhartz91



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Future Fic, Go-Go Dancer Blaine, Hangover, M/M, Mention of alcohol, mention of Walter, mention of sexual content, pre-wedding jitters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 17:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14085585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: The morning of his wedding, Kurt wakes up in a hotel room, completely hungover, not quite sure what happened the night before.He doesn’t know where he is.He doesn’t know where his fiance is.And neither does the go-go dancer he might have slept with.





	Could Be Worse

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-write. I made Walter's last name Hamlin because he didn't have a last name in the show and Hamlin is the last name of the actor who played him.

“ _Oh holy hell …_ ”

Kurt hears the words, feels them ricochet around the inside of his skull like a pinball on fire before he realizes that _he’s_ the one talking.

“Oh holy hell … what the frick … my brain feels like it’s going through a _meat grinder_!”

“Well, that’s what a Blow Job will do to you,” a somewhat familiar - though vaguely _unfamiliar_ \- voice grumbles from somewhere nearby.

In too much mortal agony to open his eyes, Kurt rolls his head on the mattress and glares as best he can with closed lids in the direction of the voice.

“Excuse me?” he growls, menacing but quiet so as not to wake the wasps that are rattling inside his head.

“A Blow Job shot?” the voice clarifies with a chuckle like a gun shot when it reaches Kurt’s ears. “Coffee liqueur, Irish Cream, and vodka. The vodka was optional, but you said _the more, the merrier_.”

“A Blow Job will make you feel like your head’s about to explode?” Kurt groans, his eyes burning to the point of tears – hot, unwelcome, uncontrollable tears.

“No,” the voice replies. “But fifteen might.”

“Fifteen?” Kurt gasps, keeping his voice low once the wave of nausea churning on the horizon of his waking brain starts to build.

“Yeah, well,” the voice says, grunting with its body’s efforts to move, “that’s where I stopped counting.”

“That’s just great.” Kurt pries his eyes open slowly, so slowly that if he keeps it up, at this rate, he’ll have them open by next June.

Too bad it’s October.

“That’s … that’s just _great_. And by the way …” Kurt’s eyes open a bit wider, but shut immediately as a flood of white light burns his retinas. “Who are _you_?”

“Who am _I_?” The voice sounds less offended than Kurt would have expected. “I’m Blaine. Blaine Anderson.”

Kurt’s face crinkles when the name doesn’t strike any bells.

“I’m the guy you were doing body shots off of last night.”

“You’re the go-go dancer.” Kurt gasps again, and this time, he almost vomits from a mixture of the pounding in his skull, which has traveled with lightning speed all throughout his body, and the shame of realizing how far gone he had to be to bring a go-go dancer back to his hotel room. “From the bachelor party.”

“Right-y oh, handsome.” Blaine shuffles around the room, doing _what,_ Kurt can only guess. The man could be robbing him blind for all he knew since, at the moment, he actually _was_  blind. “Holy and crap.”

“What?” Kurt scrabbles to stand, but something akin to karmic hatred slams him back down to the bed. He did something debasing and stupid … really, REALLY monumentally stupid, and now he’s going to pay. Let Blaine take everything he has; as long as the man leaves him with at least _one_ kidney, he’ll feel justly punished. He just wants this to end as quickly as possible so he can get back to his life.

 _There’s_  a mess he’s not looking forward to cleaning up.

“Now, I don’t want you to freak out,” Blaine starts out, his voice laden with humor and a dash of sympathy, “but by the looks of this hotel room, someone had a lot of fun last night, and it might have been us.”

That gets Kurt’s body moving. His eyes pop open, the light shocking his optic nerve so that all he sees is a big white blur. Every synapse in his body fires, and even though he feels like he’s swimming through caramel in a pool that reeks of stale beer and old vomit, he somehow leaps out of bed, standing on wobbly, uncooperative feet. An arm grabs him and holds him steady, for which Kurt is grateful, but realizing there’s only one other person in the room, and therefore only one person that arm can belong to, he immediately shrugs it away.

“Well, _excuse_ me,” Blaine says, but follows it with a snicker. It doesn’t seem like he’s taking anything too seriously. Kurt should feel guilty for being such a jerk seeing as the man, go-go dancer or no, is only trying to help, but as his eyes focus on the room he’s in, he becomes completely numb. The floor is littered with condom wrappers and their used counterparts, alongside empty packets of lube, two drained champagne bottles, and a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.

Kurt should have been _mortified_. And he would have been, if it wasn’t for one tiny, slightly important thing.

That is to say,  _person_.

“But … but I don’t understand,” Kurt mutters through the fog that has him trapped, keeping him from thinking too hard or too clearly about anything. “What happened to Walter?”

“Walter?” Blaine repeats. “Who’s Walter?”

“Walter,” Kurt repeats, as if saying the name again will help jog Blaine’s memory. When all he does is return an exaggerated dumbfounded stare, Kurt gets profoundly annoyed. “Walter? My fiancé Walter? The man I’m supposed to be marrying today?”

“Look, sweetheart, I get it.” Blaine grimaces, putting a finger to his pursed lips, attempting to shush Kurt. “You don’t have to shout. And I don’t remember a Walter. Though there could have been. Who knows? I mean, I was about seventeen sheets to the wind myself. I barely remember _you_.”

“Right,” Kurt consoles himself. “I mean, two people couldn’t possibly have gone through all those condoms alone. There _has_ to be someone else …”

Blaine nods in agreement, though the grin on his face hints that he might know better.

Kurt’s heart sinks into his gurgling stomach.

He _really_ screwed up big time.

Walter had asked Kurt to marry him in the café where they met over a year ago so, suffice it to say, theirs had been a long engagement. After months and months of Walter’s hinting, sentimental references to biological clocks, and comments about _marrying the love of his life before he has to leave this earth_ , Kurt finally set a date.

More like he bought them two tickets to Vegas to elope and invited anyone they knew who wanted to tag along. He sent out a massive Facebook post, and by the time they arrived at the airport, Sam, Artie, Noah, Jake, and Ryder were there waiting for them. They checked in at their hotel and had an all-day impromptu bachelor party. It was fun, kind of like senior ditch day at McKinley, hitting the different attractions and seeing the shows, riding the Insanity and the X-Scream on top of the Stratosphere Hotel until he thought he was going to scream himself hoarse, with the wedding looming over him like a dangling sword.

By the late afternoon, he was lukewarm about the whole ordeal, and afraid he might be getting cold feet. He even hid in a public restroom and called Carole for some good old-fashioned mother/son advice. She calmed him down in that soothing motherly way of hers that Kurt had fallen in love with almost instantly when they first met. When he got off the phone, he had been fine, and ready to get started with his new life.

But the trepidation returned, and by that evening, Kurt’s cold feet had gone positively frigid.

Their afternoon of frolic and fun ended at some gay strip club on what was apparently ‘Go-Go Boy Night’. Kurt had spotted Blaine the moment they walked in. He was muscular, oiled up, and dancing in a cage.

The group of them danced and drank, though Kurt stuck to his signature Shirley Temples so Walter could have his token gin and tonic. He was pretty sure Jake and Noah were taking ecstasy from the way they started touching everybody and everything around them. The Go-Go dancers were released from their cages to mingle with the crowd, and Kurt had begun to relax enough to consider enjoying himself.

A text from his dad tipped the scales and sent Kurt into an alcoholic whirlwind. His relationship with his dad became strained when the news of Kurt and Walter’s engagement hit his inbox. Burt Hummel still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of his son marrying a man who was roughly his own age, regardless of how many ‘ _as long as you’re happy, I’m happy’_ texts he sent. Kurt could see right through them, the same way he could see through the one he received during an impromptu round of body shots.

_To Kurt:_

_Carole says you’ve run off to Vegas to shack up with Walter. I wish I could have heard the news straight from the horse’s mouth, but I understand why you might have decided to wait. Remember, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy._

This was roughly about the same time Kurt started binging. He remembered downing the first three shots with his hands clasped behind his back. After that, things got kind of hazy.

“What the hell happened?” Kurt asks under his breath, not expecting an answer.

“I think _these_ can help fill in some of the holes.” Blaine holds up a few yellow slips of paper that look like speeding tickets.

“What are those?” Kurt wraps his arms around his waist for support, knowing he’s most likely not going to like the answer.

“They look like citations from the police …” Blaine holds them up one at a time as he explains. “This is for making too much noise. This is for public nudity. And this …” Blaine giggles and nods his head “… is for punching the manager of the hotel. It looks like he decided not to press charges, though.”

“You punched the manager of the hotel?” Kurt says, mouth agape.

“No, handsome. _You_ did. Your name is Kurt, right?”

“Oh holy hell.” Kurt grabs his hair in both hands and drops back down to the bed, two actions that should have been considered very carefully and then rejected before they were actually carried out because now, more than ever, he feels everything he’s ever eaten since the eighth grade fighting to be free of his stomach.

“Oops, here you go, soldier.” Blaine rushes over with an empty waste bucket and puts it between Kurt’s legs. Kurt takes a few deep breaths but manages to quell the flood of vomit before it makes an appearance.

“Thanks.” Kurt looks up into the hazel eyes of the admittedly gorgeous man standing naked before him, which prompts another humiliating realization. Kurt looks down his body to check.

Yup. He’s naked.

“I’m amazed they didn’t kick us out,” Kurt says, eager to change the subject, at least in his own mind, of his current state of dress. The urge to vomit may be gone for the time being, but he feels bile rise to his mouth as he finally acknowledges that, yes, he and Blaine were _intimate_ with each other.

Blaine picks up another piece of paper, a computer print-out, and laughs.

“It looks like they did.” He holds the print-out up for Kurt to see. Kurt squints at it, but the print is too small to read, especially when the words insist on chasing each other like cats and mice all over the page.

“What does it say?”

“This is a bill from the Hilton,” Blaine explains.

“So?” Kurt says. “That’s where we’re … where Walter and I are booked.”

“But we’re at the Marriott.” Blaine grabs a towel from off the back of a chair and tosses it to Kurt. Kurt lets it fall into his lap instead of making a move to catch it. He opens the towel up on his knees and there at the edge, embossed in large block letters, is the name ‘MARRIOTT’. Blaine peers down the page, reading the bill all the way to the end. “And in the notes at the bottom it says that we are, and I quote,  _permanently banned from the Hilton family of hotels_.”

“Oh holy hell,” Kurt moans again, wondering how exactly one gets banned from a hotel. He scoffs. Evidently by being loud, nude, and punching the manager.

“Jesus Christ!” Blaine exclaims. “This ban is _international_!”

Kurt doesn’t know what to do. He has to find Walter. He has to make sure that he’s okay. He has to apologize.

Kurt turns to the table by the bedside in search of his phone and spots a clock. The red digital numbers swim in front of his eyes, but they’re easier to make out than black type on a white sheet of paper.

_1:45 p.m._

His wedding was at _noon_! He missed his wedding! Kurt clenches his teeth, running a hand through his hair, and feels something hard knock against his forehead. He pulls his hand out of the tangled mess and looks at his fingers splayed wide. A gold ring winks back at him, resting on his left ring finger as if it had always been there. Kurt spins it around on his finger, staring at it as if it is some frightening alien parasite, and grows even more confused.

“B-but … I got married.” Kurt scans the room, his brow knitting together. Was there a chance that Walter was in the room with them, passed out on the floor, in the bathroom perhaps? Kurt hadn’t moved more than two feet at the most, so that was still a possibility. Maybe they had met up later in the evening and gone to one of those drive-thru chapels. Maybe they had gotten married with Elvis as the officiant. (For some reason, he feels that his dad would greatly approve of that. Silver lining, perhaps?) Maybe they met back up with Blaine and the three of them “celebrated”?

“Uh, Kurt?” Blaine says, breaking his concentration.

“What?” Kurt snaps, but he’s trying to recall anything from the night before, and seeing as his mind only has enough capacity at the moment to process one thing at a time, he would rather not be disturbed. He turns his head toward the man who is now completely dressed – dark wash jeans hugging his legs; a long, grey designer t-shirt with some retro band design artfully faded on the front, and a pair of stylish Doc Martens which Kurt can appreciate because he owns about ten of the same pair in various different colors. Kurt looks the man over from head to toe and back again. Too bad he’s married. He wouldn’t mind a repeat performance of whatever happened last night at a time when he can actually remember it. Maybe when he finally finds where in the hotel room Walter has stashed himself, he’ll pluck up the courage to ask.

“Where did you get a change of clothes?”

Kurt doesn’t remember a lot about being at the club, but he is pretty sure Blaine was wearing a pair of gold boy shorts and a mesh tank top.

“I had a change of clothes with me at the club,” Blaine says with a shrug. “You don’t know fear until you’ve walked the streets of Vegas after midnight in a pair of ‘fuck me’ shorts.”

Kurt doesn’t nod, doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, eyes locked past Blaine with a thousand yard stare - confused, terrified, nauseous, and just plain lost all at once.

If there was ever a time to make a speedy exit, _now_ is that time.

“Look, I can see you’ve got more important things than me to handle right now, so I’m just going to go,” he says, bending over to tie up his shoes.

“Yeah. S-sure,” Kurt says, half-disappointed that Blaine doesn’t offer to help. Kurt has never been to Vegas before. He doesn’t know where anything is, doesn’t know where to go for help. He doesn’t even know where any of his friends are! And after the night he supposedly had, he’s not sure that calling the police would be his best bet. With his luck, he’s probably a wanted man for more than what’s written on those citations. “Is there anything _else_ I owe you?” Kurt wants to drop dead the moment the words pass his lips. Blaine smirks, but waves a hand.

“Nah, we’re straight,” he assures Kurt, heading for the door like he’s late for an appointment, which he might be since Kurt realizes he has no idea what else Blaine does with his life. Blaine stops at the door and glances one last time at Kurt, frowning at the distraught expression on his face. “Hey, for what it’s worth, I hope Prince Charming _is_ here somewhere. When you see him, tell him I had an _awesome_ time.”

“Thanks.” Kurt coughs out a humorless laugh, not meeting Blaine’s eyes. Blaine walks out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Kurt counts to ten and waits before he makes another attempt at getting up. When he pushes off the bed, he finds his limbs are stiff, but his head is much clearer. He walks into the bathroom, surveying the rooms as he passes through for any sign that Walter has been there. He examines the ring on his finger. It’s gold – _yellow_ gold. But if he remembers correctly (which he honestly doesn’t) he thought Walter said the rings he picked out for them were titanium. Kurt turns on the cold water and splashes his face, shivering as drops fly over his shoulders and roll down his back. He soaks his face over and over until he’s replaced the pain in his head with the bite of ice-cold water on his skin. He turns off the faucet and reaches for a towel on the counter, but his hand comes in contact with another piece of paper. He squeegees his face with a swipe of his hand and looks at the paper more closely. It appears to be another citation, folded neatly in half, sitting on the counter top. Kurt reaches over and picks it up, not too eager to unfold it and find out what other damage they did at the Hilton. Peeing in the pool? Stripping in the lobby? Or worse - having sex in the elevator?

He sits down on the toilet to keep from falling over while he reads the yellow sheet of paper. But it’s not a citation. It’s a receipt.

A receipt for a wedding license.

Makes sense since Kurt was put in charge of getting one. Kurt reads it, looking away and blinking every few seconds as the print somersaults in his view. He desperately tries to latch on to the words and make sense out of them.

_Mr. and Mr. Hummel._

It’s supposed to read _Mr. and Mr. Hamlin-Hummel._

Kurt looks the page over, trying to pinpoint Walter’s name anywhere, but he can’t. Another name leaps out at him and he swallows thickly, a new wave of nausea crashing down on him, threatening to drag him under, except this time he feels like he’s going to faint.

_Mr. and Mr. Hummel._

_Mr. Kurt Hummel and Mr. Blaine Anderson-Hummel._

_Holy shit …_

 


End file.
